A Christmas Dream
by Gertrude2034
Summary: House has a dream about the past, present & future. Will it hold the key to the success for House? The dream expresses my own "journey" with House over the past few years, and my hopes and wishes for the future of House.  Not for Huddy fans.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** House has a dream about the past, present and future. Will it hold the key to the success for House as we know it? The dream expresses my own "journey" with House over the past few years, and my hopes and wishes for the future of House. (House/OC, not for fans of Huddy.)

**A/N: **This story was written for the House/OC board Friday night challenge but I had a couple of requests to post it here as well. It is a bit of an in-joke, as the chapters feature some of my favorite House/OC writers providing messages for House as he proceeds through the dream - but you don't necessarily need to know who the people are in order to understand what's going on. There are 8 chapters in total - and I'm going to post them all pretty quickly. Hope you enjoy! And whatever you celebrate, hope you're having a wonderful festive season.

* * *

**A Christmas Dream**

© Gertrude2034

It was dark. The impenetrable blackness had spread across his retinas like an ink stain on silk. Now there was . . . nothing.

And nothing was surprising peaceful. Perhaps he could stay here forever, away from the exhaustion of the past few days, away from the constant emotional battles, away from the never-ending demands of life.

Hmm, they had a name for that, didn't they?

Oh yeah, death.

Perhaps he wasn't quite ready for that.

So what was this then? Sleep?

Memory slipped past without leaving meaning. Must be sleep.

Doors appeared in the darkness, emerging from the void fully formed. He felt the sigh echo through his chest even in his dream state. Doors? For chrissakes, could his mind get more Freudian? Or was it Jungian?

As if he gave a shit.

Eight doors in total. Seven of them were clear and solid; the eighth wavered somehow, as if its reality was yet to be determined. It didn't matter, House knew with the certainty that only comes in dreams that the doors must be approached in order. The eighth door's solidity was a problem that wouldn't matter until the seven other doors had been addressed.

"So do I knock?" he said aloud. There was no one to answer. Instead, a table shimmered into sight to his left, filled with an array of snack food – only _healthy_ snack food, the kind Wilson was always trying to get him to eat. Crudités, dry-looking crackers, something that looked suspiciously like, ugh, hummus.

What was the message here? Even in sleep his rational brain never rested.

He was about to undergo a trial of some kind – he needed energy. Nutrition.

Bah.

If his brain thought he needed energy then it could damn well provide a dry Rueben and a can of Coke like a normal person.

Besides, he had the feeling it was a distraction. A red herring. Like the rash on the legs that turned out to be due to his patient's poor shaving technique and nothing at all to do with her cytomegalovirus disease.

Door one.

He turned on his heels to face it.

* * *

1.

Images covered the door's surface like some demented decoupage. His Aunt Sarah had been into that for a while. For Christmas one year she'd sent him a timber box covered with faux-vintage travel labels: Paris, New York, Rome, Sydney. What the box was for had never been adequately explained. He still had it in his bedroom. Used it to store condoms as a kind of irony. Kitsch as it was, he kinda liked it.

On the door though, like Harry Potter's chocolate frog cards, the photos moved. Shimmered. All the images were from his work. Wilson, his team, even some patients. There was a picture of a classroom, and House peered at it more closely. At first he thought it was his own education, but then he vaguely recognized an eager-looking student, hand raised, glasses perched tightly on his nose. It was the diagnostics lecture he'd been forced to give, the one where the Baywatch thespian had metaphorically helped out playing the roles of some patients. Yeah. He'd enjoyed that. Not that he'd admit it to anyone. Not that he had _any_ plans of continuing a role as a teacher.

All the photos were dark, as if the camera taking them hadn't been on the right setting. Or someone hadn't got the lighting right. A yellowish tone across them all gave the door a sepia hue. House got it: this was the past.

If this was how it was going to work, shouldn't there be just three doors, then? Past, present, future? The future was the shadowy one; it didn't take a genius to work that out. Why, then, the extra five doors? What was their purpose?

A puzzle. His brain knew he liked those, he supposed. Perhaps this was just its way of entertaining itself while he slept.

With a jigsaw, he always started with a corner piece. With a crossword, the top left-hand clue. With a patient, the facts in the file before him. With doors?

His hand went to the doorknob, an ornate brass sphere, grooved and molded into something resembling fruit.

It opened easily and revealed a familiar scene. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't this. No lush room, no tranquil garden setting. Just the corridor of his own Baker Street apartment, lined with bookshelves, the rooms at each end in shadow.

On the floor, leaning against the bookcase, sat a woman, engrossed in a book.

He took a step closer and she looked up from the pages she was absorbed by with an expression that told him he was expected.

She rose. "Hello."

She was tall and perhaps a little imposing-looking, but her genuine smile and twinkling eyes instantly made House relax. Her hand was confidently thrust forward and he didn't hesitate in returning the handshake.

"Hello," he said, giving her a short nod.

"So I guess I'm here to welcome you," she said, still smiling warmly.

"I guess you are. Welcome me to where exactly?"

"This is the first," she said enigmatically.

"Right." His tone clearly indicated what he felt about that answer.

"It's important to come back here."

"Why?"

"Because this is where we fell in love."

He frowned. He was pretty sure he'd remember a relationship with her. It wasn't like there'd been that many.

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"It doesn't matter," she interrupted with another of those infuriatingly enigmatic smiles. "You'll work it out." She returned her attention to the book in her hand, reading with the same absorption he himself did.

He shook his head. "Where _who_ fell in love?" he asked, his impatience beginning to show.

She looked up, as if surprised to find he was still there. "Us."

"Us? You and me? Because I'm sorry, but I don't—"

"Not you and me. Well, kind of you and me. But you and us. Or us and you. Yes, that's probably a better way of putting it."

His brain began to hurt. He loved crosswords. Just not the cryptic ones. Those were maddening.

"Would you like a cookie?" she offered.

"No, I would not like a cookie."

She shrugged, seemingly unfazed by his curt tone. "Okay."

"So can I go to the next door now?"

"Sure. Just remember, as you go, why we fell in love. It's important you don't lose sight of that."

"Geez!" He threw his hands up in the air. "I don't remember loving you, okay? So cut this 'fell in love' crap!"

She put her head on one side and seemed to consider his words carefully. "Love means different things to different people," she said eventually.

This was too hard. "Can I wake up now?"

She gave him a knowing look. "Before you've solved the puzzle?"

House stamped his foot like a toddler having a tantrum. A low growl rumbled in the back of this throat.

She nodded. "I thought so. Good luck."

He sighed and turned back to the door behind him. Hand on the knob, a question occurred to him. He looked over his shoulder to find the woman had returned to her seat on the floor, her head buried in the book.

"What are you reading?"

Her eyes flashed up at him approvingly. "_Hound of the Baskervilles._"

He nodded. It made about as much sense as anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

2

The second door also had photos on it. But these weren't as carefully applied; at least they didn't seem to have the same patina as those on the first door. They were happy pictures, though. Mostly. Patients whose lives he'd saved. He didn't remember the names, of course. But there was the little girl with cancer who'd insisted on hugging him, that annoying save-the-world African doctor, the so-called daughter of his friend, Crandall. Down the bottom, there was a tiny image of Stacey, a bitter-sweet reminder of things best left in the past.

The doorknob this time was porcelain. It was painted, blue and white with spots of orange; a Mexican-looking pattern.

Inside, another woman. She was sitting at a desk, typing furiously into a computer. Behind her, on the wall, sketches of various scenes were pasted everywhere, overlapping, a storyboard gone wild. In one image a small child stood near a dinosaur skeleton, in another a beautiful woman sat on the deck of a cabin in the mountains. In yet another, a vampire and a zombie scowled menacingly out from the page.

She looked up from her computer and removed her glasses. "Oh good, you're here," she said, She spoke quickly, and used her hands to gesture to a chair on the other side of the desk. "Take a seat so we can get started. I'm on a deadline and we need to get this sorted out so I can get this chapter posted or they'll be out for my blood."

House didn't normally respond well to efficiency, especially when he had no idea what she was talking about, but he figured it was easier to sit.

She leaned forward and steepled her fingers together, giving him an assessing look. "So you've been to the first door, then."

It wasn't quite a question.

"Yes." House figured it would be a good idea to keep his answers simple until he understood where this was headed.

"And have you worked it out yet?"

"Worked _what_ out?" His anger returned. Mostly, anger at himself. He hated not knowing the answer.

She looked disappointed, but covered it quickly. "Never mind, you'll get there."

"Care to provide a map?"

Her mouth opened but she closed it again, looking thoughtful. "I would, but . . . that would spoil things."

House snorted. "So what, are you going to talk about falling in love, too?"

This time her look was mischievous. "I can do more than talk about it." Her eyebrows raised in a gesture he recognised as one of his own. "Care to take me into the back room and show me your tricks?"

Oh, so this was going to be one of _those_ dreams. House felt a strange combination of relief and disappointment. He understood _those_ dreams. But the fact that that puzzle had seemingly ended without a solution was a letdown.

He shrugged and started to rise from the chair. Sex was sex.

She giggled. "Fantastic!" she said to herself. But then she let out a long, regretful sigh. "Sorry. That's not what this is about. Besides, the others would have my hide." She added a muttered "damn it" under her breath.

He collapsed back in the chair. "So what is it about?"

She gestured to the wall and to the stacks of paper House belatedly noticed piled on the desk.

"Plot!" she announced with a flourish.

"Plot?"

"Story! The meaning of it all."

"Forty two?" House offered.

She rolled her eyes. "House versus God."

He screwed up his eyes – that rang a bell. "Oh, you mean that scoreboard Chase drew up?" They'd been working on that faith healer kid, the one who'd had herpes. Oh yeah, that had been _sweet._

She waved her hand impatiently. "That and everything else."

"I don't understand."

"It's plot and story that will take you through the third door and into the fourth."

"Huh?"

"After that it's more difficult to see. From here, anyway."

"Will you just say something that makes sense!" House slammed his fist on the desk, making the piles of paper shift menacingly.

She shook her head and gave him a piercing look. "What did you learn from the first door?"

House took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. She was right, he needed to step through this, to go back to logic, to his usual inductive reasoning. Where had they got to? "Something about falling in love."

She snorted in disdain. "Gee, and I was told to expect you'd be smart."

House tightened his fists, but tried to maintain his focus on logic. "There was something that I had to remember as I went into each door."

She nodded this time, looking satisfied.

"Something about 'falling in love' was what I had to remember – only I don't know what that is," he added in frustration.

"That's okay," she soothed.

"Oh, and I think it might have something to do with Sherlock Holmes."

Her smile widened to a pleased grin. "Now you're on the right track."

He shook his head. He still didn't understand.

"It's time to move to the next door."

"Really?" He turned to look at the pictures on the wall. They felt somehow _familiar_, but if pressed he couldn't have explained why. He'd have liked more time to look at them all and ask the typist more questions.

"I'm afraid so. I'd like to keep you here, but the others wouldn't be pleased."

"What others?"

"And you'd never get to the last door."

Ah. The last, insubstantial door. "About that—"

She turned her attention back to the computer in front of her. "I have to post!" she muttered, her fingers once again flying across the keyboard.

House shrugged. He clearly wasn't getting any more from her. He rose and went to the door. He took one last longing look at the pictures on the wall before closing it behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

3

The third door, unlike the others, didn't have pictures on it. This door looked battered, as if it had weathered many storms. The dark paint – not quite black, not quite blue – was chipped, showing layers of other paint beneath. Strangely, it gave the door a warm, almost welcoming feel. This door had seen it all – been to hell and back – and lived to tell the tale.

The door opened with a creak, revealing a woman perched on a yoga mat delicately stretching her back like a cat. Dark, curly hair bounced around her face and she brushed back bangs from her eyes.

"Hello?" House asked hesitantly. He hoped she wasn't expecting him to follow suit. That kind of exercise had never been his thing, even when he had been able-bodied.

The woman looked up and smiled. She twisted around carefully on the mat and sat cross legged, patting the space beside her. "Hi. You're welcome to take a seat."

House frowned – he couldn't sit like that, even if he'd wanted to. But sitting did seem like a good idea. Instead he sunk down, leaning his back against the closed door behind him.

She smiled again, not at all perturbed that he hadn't chosen to sit next to her.

"You look so . . . _calm_," he couldn't help saying.

She nodded sagely. "Thank you. It's important. Especially given what it is you have to remember from this door."

"Ah." That sounded kind of ominous.

"I can put some music on if you'd like," she offered, gesturing to a stereo in the corner. "I've got lots of the stuff you like."

How she knew what music he liked wasn't worth pursuing, he figured. "Nah, don't worry about it. I kinda think I need to know about your message."

Her smile faded and was replaced by an expression of great concern. He felt reassured that this woman felt so distressed for him. It somehow made whatever she was about to say easier to cope with.

"You have to remember the difficult times," she began.

House snorted a black laugh. "Yeah. Not hard. Not like there hasn't been a few of them."

Her expression softened and House again felt reassured. "I know," she said soothingly. "But it's the difficult times – the angst and the sorrow – that make the story worth telling."

"Story?"

"It's the way you've struggled that's kept us in love with you."

"The love thing again? Like from the first door?"

She nodded. "Exactly."

"Sorrow creates love?" House frowned.

She pursed her lips, thinking about that. "Not the sorrow _itself_," she said eventually. "But the understanding it gives us as it happens."

This was beginning to sound like one of his therapy sessions with Nolan. He waved a hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, learn from my mistakes and all that."

"Sort of. Remember Tritter?"

As if he could forget. He didn't bother to answer.

"Remember how you came so close to pushing Wilson away? Pushed him so hard he left you on the floor at Christmas that time?"

House squirmed. He didn't think anyone else knew about that.

"It's the drama and what you learned about yourself that was valuable. I shouldn't tell you this, but it will happen again at the fifth and sixth doors. And it will be good."

"Good for who?"

She gave him a cheeky smile at that. "Well, possibly not good for you. At the time. Although, in the long run . . . it does make us love you more."

"So you mean to tell me that you people – these women I'm meeting in each door – want me to suffer so they can love me more?"

She gave a satisfied grin. "See, I knew you'd get it."

House was infuriated. "So I'm forced to dance with my toes to the fire just for the entertainment of others? Forget it!"

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

House wanted to rage against that, but something deep inside him told him it was the truth. He fell silent, slumped against the door.

"There's going to be more suffering ahead," she said, more gently this time. "More drama. At least, that's what we're predicting."

_Predicting?_ So they didn't know everything?

"Does that have something to do with the eighth door?" he asked, remembering its hazy outline.

She nodded. "Yes, And possibly the seventh."

"What kind of suffering?"

"I really can't tell you that. All I can tell you is that when it happens, it will be for the best."

A question burned in his throat but he wasn't sure if he was brave enough to ask it. Still, it wasn't like this person knew him. And she seemed so compassionate. He took a deep breath.

"Will it . . . will it _hurt_?" His voice was almost a whisper.

"Physically?"

House nodded. _Pain_. He simply couldn't take any more pain.

Her eyes filled with tears. She shook her head. "Not physically."

A lump formed in his throat. "But emotionally," he guessed.

"We're afraid . . ." Her breath caught and she swallowed hard. "We're afraid your heart is going to be broken."

House shrugged. "I pretty much figure that might happen every morning I wake up."

She managed a watery smile. "I know. That's why we . . ." She dashed the back of her hand against her cheek to wipe away an errant tear, then her expression became determined. "You need to consider your pain management better," she said.

House reeled with the sudden change of topic. "Huh?"

"I can give you advice on all kinds of ways to better manage your leg pain. The Vicodin situation should never have got to where it did." Her hands tightened into fists. "The people around you were _not_ looking out for you properly."

"In fairness, I didn't make it exactly easy for them."

"No, but that's no excuse."

She stood up and House took that as his cue and stood too.

"Come back and see me after and we'll talk. I can prescribe you better pain management. Get you on a regime that'll get you moving again. Might even be able to get you active – get you back on the golf course at least."

House considered that. Maybe. Maybe not. "I thought you said my suffering was a good thing?"

She gave him a lopsided smile. "It's complicated. You experience pain; we long for you not to be in pain. It's a symbiotic thing. And I can't help wishing for relief for you."

He nodded. "Okay. Thanks," he added.

She gestured to the door. "Best get on to the next one. There's an important lesson in there too."

She had a lovely smile. House was almost reluctant to leave. But the puzzle was yet to be solved.


	4. Chapter 4

4

An elegant blond woman sat on a cane deck chair behind the fourth door wearing a tennis outfit, her hair caught up at the back in a clip. Two large dogs were beside her – she had her arm thrown around one and it cuddled next to her eagerly. The other sat to attention next to her as if guarding her from some unseen foe.

"Hello?" House asked nervously. He'd never been comfortable around dogs.

She smiled and House's nerves evaporated.

"Hello!" she said warmly. "Welcome!" She stood and gestured around her. "Let's take a walk."

Now this was more like it. A beautiful lake stretched out into the distance and she led him to path that wound along the shore. Sunlight sparkled from the surface of the water and the dogs trotted obediently behind them.

"Nice," House said.

"Why thank you." She had a faint southern twang in her accent.

They walked in silence for a while and House was grateful. He'd been given a lot to think about, and that last door had been pretty intense.

"Do you know what I like best about dogs?" she asked as they passed a large, shady tree.

House shrugged.

"Their loyalty. And loyalty is repaid."

"Um, okay," he said hesitantly. He had no idea where this was going.

"Sometimes things start off and you wonder what on earth is going on, but if you hang in there, if you're loyal, sometimes you get repaid in the nicest ways."

"What by slobbering and dog farts?"

She gave him the kind of look that mothers had been using to pull teenage boys into line for centuries. It worked.

"Sorry," House muttered.

"Remember the engineer who helped Cate in Antarctica?"

House cast his mind back. His memories of that time were surrounded by a little bubble of hurt and he didn't like to prod them. They were yet more remembrances that were best left in the past.

She continued, seeing the acknowledgment in his silence. "He did everything he could for Cate in his loyalty to her. Some unpleasant things at times. And he won her heart."

"Yeah, but I did everything I could too," House pointed out. He didn't like the way he sounded so whiny, but couldn't help it.

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "I know you did. We all know you did. And, like you, we wish that had turned out differently."

"She was on the other side of the world," House muttered, kicking a stone on the path in front of him.

"Yes, and perhaps it's for the best. There are other things that might not have happened if things with Cate had moved forward."

"Like what?"

"Like Amber."

House felt a thud in his stomach as he did every time he heard that name. Even innocently, channel surfing, a TV shopping channel advertising amber jewellery. It still had the same effect.

"Yeah, cause that was peachy," he sneered, hoping to cover his deep distress. "Besides, what's that got to do with loyalty?"

"I'm not really talking about your loyalty. I'm talking about ours."

"Yours?"

"Yes. It was tested. Change tested it. But it was repaid by your head and Wilson's heart."

"Huh?"

She smiled and shook her head. They'd reached a picnic table by the side of the lake and she led them over to it and they both took a seat.

She perched her chin on her hand and gave him an assessing look. "I know you don't understand and that's okay. You don't need to understand this part of it to solve the puzzle."

"Good. So how _do_ I solve the puzzle?"

"You've got to visit the other doors." One of the dogs ambled up to the woman's side and nuzzled against her. She dropped her hand to scratch its ears. The dog – House could have sworn – smiled.

"Yeah. Okay." House took a deep breath and let it out. What had he discovered so far? He wished his team were here so he could bounce his ideas off them. The woman would have to do. "So, recap. Door one – something from the past is important for the future – for falling in love in the future. Something to do with Sherlock Holmes. Right?"

She smiled enigmatically and House knew she wasn't going to give him any further answers. But he continued, determined to see if he could discover the pattern.

"And plot – I have to remember plot to move the story forward. Then, suffering. Or sorrow. Or drama. Or something." That door still felt a little hazy. "And loyalty. Repay loyalty."

Her blond hair bobbed in its clip as she nodded. "You're halfway there."

"It feels like I have a handful of puzzle pieces and no idea how they fit together," House complained.

"Kind of like a diagnostic session, huh?"

He sighed. It was a lot like that, only with no patient at the end, their life hanging in the balance. It was infuriating; intensely irritating. But he wanted to get to the next door.

He looked around at the beautiful scenery. "So how do I get back? Where's the door?" He had no idea how far they'd walked.

"Right here." She waved her hand and the door appeared right beside them.

"Thanks for saving me the walk," House said.

"You're welcome." She smiled again. "Good luck."


	5. Chapter 5

5

The fifth door looked like a hippie's Combi van from the sixties. Painted with psychedelic swirls and splotches, it almost hurt his eyes to look at it. Someone had been on some _very_ good drugs when they'd painted it.

It opened easily and inside a woman with a doll-like face and short, strawberry-blonde hair danced to music only she could hear. A daisy chain circled her head and a flowing silky dress swished around her ankles.

She grinned broadly when she saw him. "You're here!" She rushed over and enveloped him in a warm, soft hug that he didn't return. "I'm so glad you're here." She stepped back, seemingly unfazed by his lack of response. "It was taking ages and I was getting _so_ bored."

House couldn't help wondering what kind of lesson he was in store for here. "I got here as fast as I could," he said mildly.

"Of course you did." She gave him another of those sunny grins.

Silence fell and the woman seemed content just standing there, smiling at him. House began to grow uncomfortable. He shifted his feet and looked over her shoulder. "Um, shouldn't we be getting on with something? Isn't there stuff you have to tell me?"

She shook her head as if awakening herself from her thoughts. "Yes! Yes, of course. Sorry. It's just so nice to have you here. I couldn't help soaking you in for a bit."

"Uh, okay. Whatever." House felt strangely pleased by her observation.

"So this is kind of fun," she said, dancing again. She'd gathered a bunch of pink peonies from somewhere and held the sheath in her arms as she danced. "We can tell dirty jokes and play swear-word Scrabble."

"Finally!" House said with true relief. "Everyone I've met has been really sweet, but I haven't really been having any fun. The walk by the lake was nice, but the conversation wasn't really fun."

"Oh yes, we're going to have lots of fun," she said emphatically, handing him a flower. "You were supposed to get this at the last door, but she forgot."

House took it and held it gingerly, not sure what to expect. But, it seemed, it was just a flower. "Are you sure we're going to have fun?"

She stopped dancing and looked at him, her expression more serious now. "Well, it will be fun to start off with. And then . . . it might not be."

House snorted. Figured.

His eyes lit on an image in the background and froze. "What's that doing here?" He pointed at the poster that hung, waving slightly in the breeze.

She did a little pirouette to see what he was pointing at before spinning back to face him. "Oh, that? It's a reminder of someone important. That is a significant event you need to think about at this door." Her light tone belied the gravity of her words.

It was a poster for a Star Trek movie.

Ku—

He couldn't bring himself to think the name. A year of therapy and when it came to remembering his employee he was still a mess.

"This is the story you made for yourself."

House spun around as another woman emerged from the shadows. Her words were tinged with an accent and as the light dawned on her features he recognized it – Japanese. The words themselves sent a shiver down his spine.

"Pity it's not true," the blonde woman said sweetly.

"No, no, no!" House stumbled back. "I'm not back here! This is not a hallucination!"

"It's okay," the new woman put out her hands as if calming a wild animal. Both of them stepped towards him, determinedly calm expressions on their faces.

The two women wore matching blue silk dresses, but there the similarities ended. They both had sweet rounded faces, but the blonde and dark hair were at opposite ends of the spectrum. The dark-haired woman didn't have flowers in her hair, nor was she holding any, instead her outstretched hand held a glass of whisky, which she offered to him.

"Here, take this. It'll settle your nerves."

"O-o-o-h yes." He took it with a shaky hand and knocked it back in one gulp. Dream though it was, the whisky made a satisfying burn as it went down.

"Sit with us." The flower-child sat cross-legged on the floor, while the Japanese lady elegantly folded her legs beneath her. She rubbed her shoulder as she sat and the doctor in House thought to ask about it, but then the flower-child produced a huge pillow from nowhere and perched it on the floor with another of those warm, welcoming smiles. House gratefully sank down – his knees felt a little weak. He laid his flower stem on the floor beside him.

"This is a good thing," the dark-haired woman said. "I know it was hard to see at the time. That is why we had to learn to trust."

"Trust," the blonde woman echoed, nodding. "That's what you have to take with you from this door."

Well, at least this time they were up front about the lesson – he didn't need to work it out from some random cryptic clues. Trust. That seemed straightforward enough.

He nodded. "Okay. Trust." Curiosity bubbled inside him until he couldn't contain it. "Why?"

The dark-haired woman smiled at him and House began to feel calmer. She reminded him of someone – someone from his childhood maybe? She began to speak before he could work it out.

"This was a difficult time—"

House interrupted before she could continue. "Difficult time! I lost everything! My work, my friends, my home – my mind!"

She waited patiently for him to rant and then picked up again as if he hadn't spoken. "This was a difficult time. Things happened that shouldn't have happened. They weren't real, but it still wasn't right."

"You mean Amber?"

The blonde woman chimed in. "No. She was good. Interesting. It's the other part that shouldn't have happened."

"Ah," he said. "You mean C—"

The dark-haired woman cut him off. "We don't need to say it," she snapped. She then seemed to gather her patience again. "What's important here is that we all learned to trust. There was a payoff for the trust we all placed in you."

"'_We all'_?" House questioned the phrase.

"Us and you."

House burned to know who "us" was, but there were higher priority questions. "Trust what?"

"Trust . . ." The dark-haired woman waved an arm, searching for the right word. ". . . the grand design."

"The grand design?" House couldn't help sneering.

The blonde woman gave him a thoughtful look. "We know you don't believe. You don't have to. What you have to understand, though, is the trust that has been placed in you. Trust that when you go through bad times, there will be a pay off. That our trust and faith will be repaid."

"Faith?" House echoed witheringly.

She cringed a little at his tone, and House wondered if she was wishing she hadn't used that word.

The dark-haired woman wasn't about to back down, though. "Yes, faith," she said, her tone firm. "We put faith in you. Don't let us down."

"Faith . . . _in me_?" House rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. This was all getting too much for what should have been a simple night's sleep. What happened to good old ordinary dreams of Angelina Jolie in a bikini with a banana and a can of whipped cream?

When he looked back, both women were smiling at him beatifically. The contrast between their porcelain and olive skin tones, their strawberry-blonde and dark hair, was dramatic, and yet they seemed to have a connection somehow, a sisterhood. Somehow, House felt, it was a connection they shared with all the women he'd met behind the doors so far.

"Who are you?" he asked eventually.

The women beamed, as if he'd asked the sixty-four-million-dollar question.

"Thank you so much for asking," the blonde woman gushed.

"But you don't need to know the answer," the dark-haired woman said immediately, gently chastening her more enthusiastic friend. "And now it's time to move to the next door."

House was quite comfortable on his pillow on the floor, but another clue was waiting. He'd learned so far that once these women said it was time to move, they rarely gave him any further information – there was no use pestering them for more.

"Okay." He rose from the floor with a struggle, but both women were suddenly there on each side, helping him to stand. It was assistance he'd usually snap at, but for some reason their calm presences he could accept.

The blonde woman handed him his flower again. "Go. There's a new adventure behind the sixth door. Something that's never been done before."

That sounded . . . interesting. House would have liked to have stayed longer and talked with the two women, but the mystery had to be solved. He turned to the door and they were gone.


	6. Chapter 6

6

The room with all the doors still had that table in it, filled with healthy snacks. House took a step closer to it – he was getting hungry. Hungry enough to brave chickpeas. All this mystery-solving was draining.

As he approached he could see that a few new things had appeared on the table. The first thing he noticed was an empty vase, half-filled with water. He looked down at the pink peony in his hand and dropped it in with a smile. He'd never admit such a girly thing aloud, but he liked fresh flowers, and peonies were his favorite. Not as clichéd as roses; freer and less rigid than tulips. He liked pink too. Another thing he wouldn't be admitting out loud.

A can of Coke had appeared and House grabbed it, opened it, and sucked down at least half in one gulp with a grateful burp to follow. He heard a giggle and the sound of a door quietly closing.

These women were looking out for him. He knew, without being told, that they had his best interests at heart. That these lessons they were teaching him were for his benefit. He just wished he understood _why_.

A door opened, followed by the sound of a foot tapping.

Time to move on – only he needed another moment.

Before turning around, he drained the rest of the Coke and gave another deep, satisfied burp.

"Excuse me! Where are your manners?" There was no mistaking the no-nonsense Philly accent.

"'Scuse me," House muttered swallowing another burp. Coke always did that to him, but he needed it. Now if that woman would just appear with another whisky . . .

He turned around to see the foot-tapping woman. She had short dark hair, her eyes highlighted by blue eye-shadow, and she was looking at him with an indulgent-mother expression. One of those _you're in trouble but I love you too much to punish you_ kind of expressions. He'd seen it on the faces of mothers with sick kids. Not his own.

She gave a crooked smile at his apology. "That's better. Now get a move on – we've got a lot to get through, and it's nearly morning."

"Can you get me something better to eat?" House figured it was worth a try.

"Those are your choices. Go for it. Then get your butt over here."

He took one last look at the carrot and celery sticks and shrugged. He'd have a good breakfast instead. Maybe go to that diner down the street and have one of those omelets that covered half the plate, the other half smothered in fried potato. His stomach growled as he thought about it.

The woman's foot started tapping again.

She was standing in front of the sixth door. The second-last door if you didn't count the eighth one that still wavered in and out of existence to the right. He looked back over the five doors he'd already visited. It had been . . . interesting.

"Okay."

She opened the door wide and gestured for him to step through first. He walked through the doorway and into . . .

The rec room at Mayfield?

No way!

He spun around, seeking to escape, but the dark-haired woman blocked the way. She gestured to two chairs sitting in the middle of the room – those curved plastic ones that House hated with a passion.

"Come on, come on. Sit down. No need for panic. Everything's fine."

She bustled him along, and before House knew it, they were sitting in the chairs, at right angles to each other. It felt like painful déjà vu – a group therapy session for two. There was no one else around. At all. Even the nurses' station was deserted.

"Don't look so worried," she chided. She gave him a little slap on the arm.

"Do you blame me?" he retorted.

Her expression softened and she gave him a kind smile. "I don't blame you. But you really don't have anything to worry about. This lesson is a good one."

"I've heard that before," House scoffed.

"This lesson is about pride," the woman said without any further beating around the bush.

House was momentarily silenced. "Pride?" he said eventually. "That's stupid."

"Pride is _not_ stupid," she chided. "We were so proud of you at Mayfield."

House shifted uncomfortably in the chair, not sure if it was physical or emotional discomfort that was getting to him. "Well, I was proud of myself for getting out of there," he snapped.

"Exactly."

Her calm agreement took the wind out of his sails. He slunk back into the chair and stuck his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. "This is stupid," he said petulantly.

"So you've said." The woman didn't seem in the least fazed by his childishness. "But it's still an important lesson. When we come here, we're filled with pride."

"About what?"

She smiled and the motherly tone left her voice, replaced by a barely-veiled excitement. "About everything that's gone before. We look back and think of all the highlights, because this was one of them."

"Mayfield was a highlight for you?" House sat up straighter in the chair, his anger growing. "Because you know it wasn't such a highlight for me. More a lowlight really. More the lowest point I've ever been in my pitiful, miserable life. And you're proud of that?"

She just smiled.

"It's true isn't it? It's what the yoga lady said. You guys get off on my suffering! If this is something to be proud of – being reduced to an animal locked in a cage – sweating and spewing and shaking through detox – being forced to deal with idiots – if you think this is a highlight then you're all . . ." He leapt up and paced as he searched for the right word. ". . . _Twisted! _You're all _evil, malevolent, sick _individuals who deserve a room at Mayfield yourselves!"

She blinked at him. "Are you quite finished?"

House made a strangled sound of frustration and continued to pace. What more were they going to put him through?

"Do you remember Hannah?"

The woman who'd been crushed under the building – whose leg he'd had to amputate. Of course he remembered her. He'd never forget the sound of her scream ringing in his ears, the look in her eyes as she died, as long as he lived. He grunted in acknowledgement of the question, still too angry to speak.

"Oh, we can't tell you how proud we were of you then. You were you, but you'd grown, you were a you that was a result of Mayfield, of everything that had gone before. And it worked. It worked, right up until . . ." She trailed off, and her face crinkled in distaste as if she'd been forced to swallow something unpalatable.

House felt his anger draining away – it was too exhausting to hold on to it. He slumped back into the chair again.

"So pride is the lesson, huh?" He said eventually. "Why now? Why, when the last lesson was about trust?"

"Because there's a reason we're still here."

He shook his head. "I don't get it."

"You will," she said confidently. "There an enormous amount of pride in what we've accomplished."

"You mean what _I've_ accomplished, don't you?"

"Yes, of course, that too," she said in rush. "But also what _we've_ accomplished. There's a body of work that would never have existed that now does, because of the hard work and dedication we've put in. The support we've given to each other. Stories and writing that have enriched people's lives. There are friendships that stretch around the world. There's a lot to be proud of, regardless of what happens next."

"So it's like trust – another lesson that's not really for me."

"Oh no, this lesson is definitely for you too. We want you to be proud of what you've achieved. Without that, you won't remember what it was that got you here." She leaned forward, looking at him directly. "It's desperately important that you take that with you when you go."

"Take _pride_ with me?"

"Take the knowledge of what makes you feel proud about what has gone before. That is what's important."

House sat back and thought about it. What was he proud of in his life? Mayfield? Actually, maybe these women knew more about him than he did himself, because when he thought about it, he _was_ proud of Mayfield. Of what he'd been through, of the fact that he survived and came out the other side.

The woman beamed at him as if she could read his mind – not the first time that had happened in this dream. Perhaps they all could.

What else was he proud of? "I'm proud of my career," House said hesitantly. Even in therapy, this wasn't something he'd been asked to consider. "Of the patients I've helped to save."

"Yes. As you should be."

"I'm proud of the fellows I've taught. I've turned Chase into a damn fine doctor. Foreman is getting there. The others . . . are a work in progress."

She nodded.

"I'm proud of the reputation I have. I know not everyone would want to be known as the doctor nurses least wish to work with," he gave her a quick grin, "but it keeps them on their toes."

"This is great. That's exactly what we want you to think about."

"I'm proud of my brain. Of my knowledge. Of the fact that I'm smarter than most people."

"Of course you are."

House searched her tone for sarcasm, but could find none. It perplexed him. "My friend would tell me that's boasting, not pride."

"Your friend has his own agenda."

House mused on that for a moment. "Yes, you're right."

"This has been wonderful," she said, giving an almost girlish shrug of her shoulders to convey her excitement. "You've really got it. I feel so hopeful now, for the first time in a long time. Maybe things will work out."

"It's time for me to go, isn't it?" House guessed.

"Yes. But you'll be fine. I'm sure of it."

House was as comfortable as he'd been since the dream started and didn't really want to leave. He hadn't been keen to be back at Mayfield, but now that he was here, it felt familiar, comfortable. He wasn't half as sure as this woman seemed to be that everything would work out.

"Maybe I could just stay here," he suggested hesitantly. "We know things are all right here. I don't know what's going to happen next."

She gave him a sympathetic look. "You're right. What happens next isn't great. But it's not awful either. It's just a little . . . dull."

"Dull?"

"Lackluster."

"Lackluster?"

"It's why you're here, learning these lessons."

"Oh. Okay."

The woman stood up and House stood with her, following her over to the door they'd entered by. She opened it and gestured for him to exit.

"Thanks," he said as he took a step through. He paused and turned back before the door closed. There was something he felt he had to say. "Oh, and congratulations to you."

She frowned.

"All that stuff you said you had achieved. The stories and friendships and whatnot. You should be proud of that."

She smiled broadly. "Oh yes. We are."


	7. Chapter 7

7

Back in the room with the doors, House went to the table to see if another can of Coke might have appeared. He again heard the snick of a door closing quietly, and on the table found a white china plate with home-made cookies piled on it. He stuffed one in his mouth, grabbed a couple more and shoved them into his pocket.

Time to get this over with, he thought. The seventh and last solid door was right there. He went to stand in front of it, noticing as he did that it looked a little like a barn door. It was split across the middle so it could open in two halves. As he examined it, the top half of the door opened.

On the other side a woman smiled at him. She had skin the color of strong milk coffee and a beautiful, if somewhat mysterious smile. Her short dark hair contrasted with a bright floral shirt. She didn't say anything, just stood back and gestured with a sweep of her arm for him to enter.

It wasn't until he was on the other side that House realized the bottom half of the door was still closed. Interesting. How had he passed through it? Resigning himself to accept it as another thing he didn't understand, he followed the woman who walked a few paces ahead.

A moment later, as they rounded a corner, House recognized where they were. Outside the front doors of Princeton Plainsboro.

"Why are we here?" he asked.

The woman put a finger to her lips and her eyes twinkled a smile at him. Although she didn't speak, the message was clear. Silence.

She led him through the front doors of PPTH, past the reception desk and through to the clinic. Inside, she put a guiding hand on his elbow and propelled them towards the chairs for waiting patients. The room was empty – the whole hospital felt as if it was empty.

House sat down and she sat beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap almost prayer-like. She remained silent.

House didn't say anything either, looking around. He'd been in the clinic so many times – so often against his will – but he'd never really paid attention to the room itself. He wondered what it would be like for a sick person coming for the first time. It wasn't exactly a friendly place. White walls, hard lines, a cold linoleum floor, the air smelling of disinfectant, a scent he barely registered any more.

Perhaps they were always so desperate to see a doctor not because of their illness, but to get out of this purgatory. Or perhaps it was just because the chairs were so damn uncomfortable.

House shifted, trying to find a position that didn't hurt his butt. He thought he saw a shadow moving in Cuddy's office, but couldn't be sure.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked eventually.

The woman again gave him a warm smile but didn't say anything.

House fidgeted, but was determined not to give in to this stubbornly silent woman. He searched in his pocket and pulled out the two cookies he'd stolen from the table, determinedly _not_ offering her one. He ate both in a crumb-filled Cookie-Monster-style frenzy, just to see if it would provoke any reaction.

Nothing.

Maybe a twitch around her mouth, like she was trying not to laugh at him. That just made him more annoyed. He brushed the crumbs from his shirtfront with an irritated sigh.

"Okay, you win," he ground out. "I'm sick of this. I'm sick of waiting for something good to happen."

At that her face broke into a proper smile, showing white teeth. She sighed. "So are we," she said revealing a soft, New Orleans accent.

"Well then, if you're sick of it and I'm sick of it, let's do something!" House leapt to his feet and pointed his cane at the door back to the foyer.

She shook her head, staying seated. "That's not how it works."

House spun around, looking for something – anything – to end this interminable waiting. Again he thought he saw a shadow move in Cuddy's office.

"Let's go in there," he suggested, pointing in the direction he'd seen the shadow.

"Let's not," the woman countered archly.

House slumped back into the chair beside her. Yep, still uncomfortable. "What are we waiting for?" he tried again.

"We don't know."

"Huh?" He spun around to face her.

Her expression betrayed some of the same frustration he was feeling. "We have to learn patience. At least, that's what we think this door is teaching us."

"I thought the doors had lessons for me?"

"Sometimes the lessons are for you. Sometimes for us. Sometimes for everyone."

House felt his mind twist trying to wrap itself around that. "I'm getting sick of the cryptic crap in this dream."

"I know. But it's the only way we could try to get our messages through to you. Even now we're not sure if we've succeeded."

"Of course you have." House waved a hand dismissively. "There have been seven doors. The lesson from this door is patience, according to you. The lessons from the other doors were . . ." He trailed off.

His brain fought to remember. How could he possibly have forgotten?

The woman at the start, she was reading a book. What was it she had said? The memory slipped through his fingers like a handful of sawdust. And then there was the hippie chick and the Japanese lady. No, she'd been later. Who'd been after the reader? The typist? Or the woman by the lake? The last door had been Mayfield and the woman from Philly. But what had been her message again?

"I don't understand . . ." House rubbed his temples with his fingers, as if trying to physically reactivate his memory.

"I know. We don't understand either. We don't understand how you could have gotten to this point and forgotten all the lessons from the past. But it has happened."

Something clicked in House's mind, a piece of knowledge that landed without any connection to any other thoughts. He had no idea how he knew it, but he knew it with a certainty. "And that's why the eighth door isn't solid, isn't it?"

She nodded and gave him a sad smile. "That's right. Our lesson here is patience. We have to be patient and hope you remember your lessons. If you do, that will open the bottom-half of the seventh door and make the eighth door a reality."

House recalled the half-closed door and the miracle of walking through it.

"Can you tell me the lessons again? I . . . I could write them down!" He leapt up again and raced for the nurses' station. He found a patient file and began searching for pen. A pencil. Anything to write with. He pushed aside stacks of paper, opened every drawer. Nothing.

He looked up. "Don't suppose you have . . . ?"

She was still sitting there, patient. She shook her head. "No, sorry. I think writing it down is cheating."

"How can there be cheating?" House demanded. "This is my dream!"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Sorry. But you have to remember the lessons yourself."

"And you can't help."

"No. All I can do is try to be patient while you remember."

"You do realize the irony of talking about patience here."

She gave him a quizzical look.

"_Patience_. _Patients_. Geddit?"

She seemed disappointed. "Yeah, I get it. I'm just surprised you felt a need to point it out."

House pouted and slouched down into the seat beside her. "This isn't fun anymore."

There was a moment of silence, but then it seemed that the waiting finally got to the woman beside him. "Can you remember the lessons? Try. Please, try."

"Does it matter what order they're in?" House asked.

She shook her head. "Not at all. Just the lessons in whatever order."

"Maybe I could create a mnemonic," House said, more to himself.

"The order doesn't matter," she urged again. "Just please try to remember."

"The woman with the book, she talked about something annoying . . ." House recalled.

The woman beside him placed her palm on her chest.

"Heart!" The word popped into his brain. The reason for it was still fuzzy around the edges – why it was "heart", and what the damned book she'd been reading was he still couldn't recall, but at least he'd made a start.

The woman beside him beamed. "Yes! You've got it!"

House narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "With your help."

She shook her head and frowned. "No, I didn't help you at all."

House was about to contradict her, yell, "oh, come on, I saw that," in her face when she gave him the subtlest wink. House got it instantly. She wasn't _supposed_ to help him, but she was going to give him clues. Excellent.

"Okay, so something about the heart was the first one. But I don't remember why or what it means," House was still frustrated.

"That's okay. At least you've made a start," she said encouragingly. "Keep going."

He noticed her fingers twitching in her lap. Her fingertips tapped against her thighs, almost as if she were—

"The typist – words. She was writing stories."

He was rewarded with another of those beaming smiles. "Keep going," she repeated.

What else could he remember? There was flowers, dogs, a lake . . .

The woman sitting beside him was sniffing. Her shoulders jerked. She looked like she was crying.

One of the women had cried for him. Cried about his pain.

"Pain," House said. Although he was excited about remembering, he couldn't bring himself to sound enthusiastic saying that word. "Suffering and pain."

"You're on the right track," the woman said, smiling again, her crying just an illusion.

"It was either the woman with the dogs or the two women with the flowers next," House said, reasonably sure of his guess.

She nodded.

"The woman by the lake had dogs with her – the dogs were about loyalty. And the women with the flowers – and the whisky," he added as the memory returned, "they wanted me to remember . . ." What had it been again? They'd helped him to stand up, they'd talked about . . . "Trust," House said the memory clicked into place.

The woman beside him jumped up as if she couldn't contain herself any longer. She paced, rubbing her hands together. "Oh, this is so much better than we imagined! We were so worried you'd forgotten everything!"

"How many more are there?" House asked, because he'd already lost count. He didn't want to ruin the woman's excitement, but the lessons he'd just recalled were already starting to fade again in his mind. And even though he might remember a word, the meaning of it was lost to him. The frustration was overwhelming.

"There's only two more, including this one, which is patience, remember?" she replied. "And _patients_. Both meanings of the word. Because both are important."

"Okay, so the one before this was the Mayfield lesson," House muttered to himself, trying to recall. "It was about being positive, about being happy, no . . . not quite right . . . it was about being . . . _proud_ of what has been achieved."

"That's right! You've recalled all of them!"

House stood and faced her. "But there's no point! I don't remember the reasons for any of them. I don't know why I'm here or what it is I'm supposed to do with all these lessons. I'm sure you're all wonderful people, but I just don't get why you've put me through all this."

"I know, I know," she said soothingly. "I know it's confusing right now, but it will all come together, I promise."

He saw a shadow move in Cuddy's office. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by exhaustion. Even though he was dreaming and therefore by definition asleep, all he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes and fall . . .

"I've had enough of all this. I'm going into Cuddy's office to lie down on her sofa and have a nap," House declared.

"No!" The woman put up her hands and looked alarmed. "You can't do that! Please, after everything we've done, you can't end up there. That's not how this should finish!"

She seemed so upset she was close to tears.

"But I'm so tired," House said, beginning to feel defeated. He took a step towards Cuddy's office. "I'll just go in there for a little while. Then I'll come back out and get on with the puzzle solving, okay?"

"No, no, no." The woman shook her head. "We don't know if you'll ever come out. That's why you had to learn these lessons again. That's why we need you to see this through to the end. _Please_."

House sighed. "I'm just not sure if I can help you all."

"You can. We know you can. Remember one of the lessons was trust? Faith? We still have it. All you have to do is go back out that door and solve the puzzle with the lessons we've given you. We know you can do it."

House paused. "I really think I'd just like to go to Cuddy. That seems easiest right now." But he sounded less certain.

"I know it seems that way, but you've never been one for taking the most obvious answer, just because it was easy. There's a puzzle waiting for you. You've got all the pieces except for one. Don't you _want_ to solve it?"

"Well of course I do, but—"

"Yes-s-s-s." She let out a long breath in relief. "Come on, come with me. You're so close. Not much further to go at all." She grabbed his hand and tugged, pulling him out of the clinic, back outside PPTH and around the corner to where their original door stood. She stepped back and pushed him towards it.

"But—" House tried again.

"Thank you. Thank you for trying. Now please solve the puzzle for us. We're all waiting." With that, she gave House another gentle push and before he knew it, he was on the other side of that confounding half-door.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Thanks everyone for the reviews and hope you all had a happy new year! I didn't expect many comments, because as I said at the start this is kind of an in-joke story. But I'm really glad so many of you enjoyed it and I'm so grateful you took the time to leave a review. I'm also very glad that there are lots of people out there like me, willing to keep up their faith and patience in the hope that we get the House back that we know and love. I had to give this final chapter of House's dream (or is it?) to myself - please forgive the self-indulgence. :)

* * *

8

He blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness after the bright lights of the hospital. As objects became clearer, House was aware of movement to his right. A woman walked towards him out of the blackness beside the eighth door. She had blond hair and light eyes and he pegged her for Australian before she even opened her mouth and revealed those uniquely flat vowels.

"Hi," she said quietly. "It's nice to see you."

"Hi."

"You've done well."

He shook his head. "Not really." He hadn't solved the puzzle yet.

"Thanks for being in my dream," she said.

"I thought you were in mine?"

"It's strange how it works that way, isn't it? Maybe this is your dream inside my dream? Someone should write a movie about it."

"I don't understand." House wished he had a dollar for the number of times he'd said that in this dream.

"I know. But that doesn't matter so much here. What matters is solving the puzzle."

"I can't." House threw up his hands in defeat.

"You've got all the pieces," she said, her head to one side, giving him a thoughtful look.

"No I don't. I only barely remember everything I was told at each door, and that's only thanks to that woman from Louisiana giving me the clues."

The woman didn't seem to mind. "Let me show you."

The eighth door stood beside them, shimmering and fading in and out, as it had been since he'd arrived in this place.

She waved a hand and the non-corporeal door lifted and began to rotate. It flipped up until it was floating flat in the air, parallel with the ground. And then it began to shrink. It floated as it shrank, moving slowly, and House and the blond woman followed it. The table that had once held the snacks was now empty and the door hovered above it, lowering slowly, continuing to shrink. By the time it landed with a gentle bump on top of the table, it was about the size of a sheet of paper. Its edges glowed more firmly than they had before, but House wondered if that was a trick of the light.

"See?" The Australian woman took his hand and tugged him closer. "This is the puzzle. Now you just have to make the pieces fit."

"But, how?" House still didn't understand.

The woman reached into his front jeans pocket, searching around with long fingers in a terribly intimate manner.

"What the . . . !" House started, jumping back in surprise.

She gave him a wicked grin and a wink. "Couldn't help myself." But then her hand emerged, holding something.

"What is it?" Curiosity overcame his sense of personal invasion and he peered at her hand. She opened it slowly to reveal pieces of a jigsaw sitting in a pile on her palm.

"How did they get in there?"

"You collected them as you went; you just didn't realize it. The women you met helped you – they each gave you a piece when you weren't looking."

"They should form a criminal syndicate with those skills," House muttered, annoyed that he'd been reverse-pick-pocketed seven times without his notice.

"I'll suggest that to them," the woman said mildly. "But in the meantime, do you want to take a closer look at these?"

House grimaced, but she was right, he couldn't get this far without trying to finish the puzzle. He took the stack of pieces from her hand and peered at the one sitting on top.

"A heart." The first piece had an anatomical drawing of a heart, sepia toned, with a book beside it. Seeing the picture made the memory flood back. This was much easier than the recall he'd tried to do in the clinic. Although, perhaps that little revision had helped to prepare him.

He looked again at the piece in his hand. He recalled the dark-haired woman and her crooked smile, the way she'd sat in the corridor of his apartment, reading her book with an intense concentration.

The piece was shaped to fit into a corner and House sat it down carefully in the top-left of the door-shaped frame on the table. The piece glowed as soon as he put it in place and then seemed to sink into the frame, matching it perfectly.

The woman beamed at him. "You've got it."

House pointed at the puzzle, his memory clear again. "This was about Sherlock Holmes. About mystery and puzzles being at the heart of everything."

"That's right." She gave him an approving nod. "It's what created the love."

"Love." House echoed uncertainly. He still wasn't sure he understood that.

"Love means different things to different people," she reminded him.

"Right." He nodded. He'd think over that later.

The next piece in his hand was covered with words. Words everywhere, so many and so small he couldn't read them. He brought the piece closer to his face, wishing he had his glasses with him.

"I can't read it," he said, his frustrating showing.

"You don't need to," she soothed. Her hand rested on his arm in a calming gesture. "It's not about the words themselves."

"Plot, it's about plot," House crowed. The typist, her busy fingers, those amazing images on the wall of all those different settings and characters.

He paused, wondering at his own thoughts. _Characters_, not _people_, was the word he'd thought.

The blond woman nodded as if she could read his mind. "That's right. It's the writing. The characters. People we meet and learn to care about deeply – even if only for a short time."

"My patients."

"Exactly."

"And my . . . friends." Is that who those people were in the pictures he'd seen pinned up on the wall in that room? Friends? But he didn't have that many of them for a start. And he usually remembered . . .

"Yes, your friends," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "And your lovers. And your enemies and acquaintances and colleagues and family and children and—"

"Whoa, whoa." House held up his hands to interrupt. "I think you should stop there."

She smiled ruefully. "Yes, you're right, I probably should."

House took the second piece and fitted it into the top right-hand corner of the frame. Like the first, it glowed and then sunk into the puzzle, joining up with the first piece. The top part now began to look like a solid door, if miniaturized.

The third piece in his hand was simply a watercolor blue. No image, no detail, just the cool, washed-out color.

The woman took his other hand in hers and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"This is to remember the drama," she reminded him.

Yes. The woman who cried for him, he remembered her. She told him to expect pain, and yet a moment later tried to relieve him of it. She told him they wanted his suffering at the same time as they wanted to save him from it.

"Contradictions," was all he said.

"Yes, it does seem that way," the woman replied. She reached up on her toes and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

He frowned at her. "What was that for?"

"For letting us break your heart."

"Thanks," House replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

She just smiled and squeezed his hand again. House squeezed back then returned his attention to the puzzle. Maybe he'd ask her out for a drink after this, he thought. And then he remembered this was a dream.

He somewhat reluctantly placed the third piece just below the first and its picture of a heart, not entirely sure it was in the right place. But it glowed and sunk down, connecting to the side and the first piece, letting him know he'd got it right.

Looking down at the collection of pieces in his hand, he saw that the next one had a picture of links of chain on it.

"Loyalty," he said instantly, remembering the elegant blond woman and her dogs. The sunshine had sparkled on the lake and yet they'd talked of Cate and Antarctica. And Amber's death. Wilson's loss.

He gripped the woman's hand more tightly.

"Yes." She nodded. "Things were difficult. External influences as well as internal ones. But loyalty paid off, with heart, and sorrow, and story." She pointed at the three pieces of the puzzle that had already been placed as she spoke.

He nodded. He was beginning to see how it all fit together. "And this piece goes here." He put the chain-link-decorated piece on the right, under the one covered in words. It sunk into place, clicking in softly with the piece above, but there was a space left in the middle.

The next piece had swirls of color all over it. He remembered the two women in their silk dresses, the flowers and the whisky, the reminders of his hallucinations. Things that had felt right at the time but had turned out to be a terrible mistake . . .

"This one was about trust," he said. "In the grand design."

"Having faith," the woman agreed. "Something that's very difficult for you – we understand that."

"But it's been difficult for you too, hasn't it?" He gave her a piercing look, wondering how he knew that about her.

She blushed slightly and didn't meet his eyes. "Yes. It's been difficult. I've kind of lost my faith." She took in a breath and looked back at him, her expression earnest. "But I guess the fact that I'm here – that we're all here – means there is still some trust there. Some vestiges must still exist. I guess I want to have faith that the mistakes that have been made will be corrected. That's what finishing the puzzle is all about."

"Okay."

House caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and looked around. He realized that the women behind the doors of each puzzle piece that had been fitted had emerged and were standing in their doorways, halfway between this space and their own, watching him. They each looked slightly anxious – he could almost feel their silent willing of him to complete the puzzle.

The two women from the fifth door were still inside their little room, but the door was open wide. They gave him encouraging smiles and flicked their hands as if to hurry him up.

House placed the piece under the blue one, in the bottom left corner of the door frame, and it fitted in with a glow.

He turned and gave the two women the thumbs up. They grinned back at him and stepped into the doorway, fighting good-naturedly with each other for position.

The next puzzle piece had a picture of a lion on it.

"Pride."

"Yep."

The activity room at Mayfield. The woman from Philly who wouldn't let him leave before he'd admitted what it was about his life that he had pride in. She'd told him that these women all had things to be proud of too.

"There's a lot to be proud of," he said.

"Yes, there is. And whatever happens, I'm not going to lose sight of that." Her voice held a steely thread of determination. "If nothing else, I've learned to spell everything with a 'z' and without a 'u'."

House considered her for a while and gave her a short nod. "Good for you."

The sixth piece fitted in the bottom-right corner of the puzzle, sinking in like the others with a glow. The frame was now filled but for two spaces in the middle.

House picked up the last piece in his hand. The image on it was of box tied up with ribbons. "Patience," House muttered.

"You know how the lessons have been mixture of lessons for you and lessons for us?" the blond woman asked, squeezing his hand gently.

"Yeah?"

"I think in this one it's very clear. The message about patience-with-a-C is for us. We have to be patient. We have to wait for something good to happen, for the reward for our trust and faith and pride and love. The message for you is about patients-with-a-T, to not forget how important they are, and that you, being a doctor to your patients, is why we're all here in the first place."

"Well duh. I didn't do all those years in medical school to become a tax accountant."

She gave him a satisfied smile. "Good."

He placed the piece at the top, in the empty space that had been left in the middle by the other pieces. It sunk down and glowed, and House was filled with a sense of satisfaction – until he saw that there was clearly space for one more puzzle piece to be fitted.

House looked down in his hand – empty. He searched his jeans pocket – nothing. He searched every pocket, but still nothing.

"There's one more piece!" he said, beginning to feel frantic. "And I don't have it."

"It's okay," she said calmly, "I do."

"Well why didn't you say?" House muttered, feeling stupid for his panicked pocket search.

"Here it is."

The woman produced a piece of paper from somewhere. It was far too large to fit into the space left empty in the puzzle.

"But that won't fit."

"Leave that to me," she said with a mysterious smile. "Here you go." She handed him the paper and an elegant fountain pen.

House looked at the paper. He couldn't read the words, but it seemed familiar somehow. And he knew what he had to do without hesitation. He rested the end of the paper on the table and bent over to sign it with a flourish.

He looked down at the signature. He could make out an "H" but the rest was almost indecipherable. One thing was clear: despite the "H" it didn't say Gregory House. It didn't appear to be _his_ name at all. And yet it was.

He handed the page back to the woman.

"I think I'm beginning to understand," House said, as he watched the Australian woman fold the piece of paper he'd signed.

She folded it again and again, making it smaller and smaller, until finally it was the perfect size to fit the gap in the puzzle.

She presented it back to him with a sad expression that contrasted sharply with the satisfaction House was himself feeling.

"Why are you sad?" House asked.

She gave him a weak smile. "Because we can't know if you've really learned your lessons – not yet." She looked down at her feet. "We can't know yet whether we've lost everything we've been working towards. It will reveal itself over time."

He lifted her chin until her eyes met his.

"Faith and trust, remember?"

She blinked and a single tear tracked down her cheek. House wiped it away with the back of his finger.

"So you do remember." Her voice was almost a whisper.

"I remember." House recited his lessons. "Faith and loyalty. Stories and drama. Pride and patience."

"And love. Don't forget the love."

"And love. I won't forget the love." Compelled by the whim of whoever it was that was dreaming this dream – for he was no longer sure who that was – House placed a gentle kiss on her lips. When he pulled back, he was pleased to see she was smiling.

House looked down at the folded piece of paper in his hand. He had to complete the puzzle, that much was sure. He gently placed the paper into the gap in the middle of the frame, grinning in genuine pleasure as it glowed and sunk into place, completing the door. The whole frame gave off a joyful glow now, bright enough to illuminate the darkness of the space.

"We're all very happy to see this," the woman said, her composure seemingly restored.

She made a small gesture and House looked around. All the women had come out from behind their doors and were smiling at him. Other people had appeared too, emerging from the darkness – a woman holding a baby waved and smiled at him; House gave her a salute-like wave in return. More women appeared, all different shapes and sizes, creeds and colors, but all smiling. House even noticed a couple of guys in the throng; both gave him a nod in acknowledgment.

His blond companion gave another wave of her hand and the completed door puzzle floated up in the air again.

"Now what?" he asked.

"That's entirely up to you," she said with a little shrug. "It always has been." She flicked a hand and the door reversed the journey it had made earlier, floating back over to its place, spinning until it was perpendicular, settling into place, solid and whole, next to the seventh door.

House walked over to it and put his hand on the doorknob. As he touched it, the door changed and instead of the images from the puzzle pieces he'd placed, the door shimmered and turned green – a solid, British racing green. A brass letter "B" sat beneath the doorknocker.

_Home. _

"Thank you," he said, turning around, meaning it for everyone in the room. A chorus of "thank yous" and "good lucks" and "make us prouds" washed over him.

He opened the door and stepped through, ready for whatever he would find on the other side.

The End


End file.
